The Ralph Lauren Express

Written by K.C. Bell

Tuesday, 8 October 2019

image for The Ralph Lauren Express
Thank you, Great Britain!

Land in London, taxi to Woodstock for the Blenheim Horse Trials, then train to Scotland for falconry, at the British School of Falconry, train back down to London.

Three in the morning, “ouch.” Serious big, “ouch”. Call the paramedics! No, not that bad. Five minutes later? That bad. Called the paramedics.

There is a reluctance to call the paramedics, as the word alone smacks of disaster, death, emergency, and maybe it’s already too late.

Instead of paramedics, if it were called the Ralph Lauren Express, sure, nice, comfortable, not to mention stylish. I’ll take two, drive.

After temp and blood pressure, the two lady paramedics announced they were taking the “ouch” person to the hospital. Another word that smacks of disaster, death, emergency, and maybe it’s already too late. Let’s call the hospital the spa.

Driving through London, in the Ralph Lauren Express, to the spa at 3 in the morning, is a surreal experience. No siren, the streets are empty, and it’s still night, quiet, dark. The Ralph Lauren Express is smooth, not at all bumpy or noisy like a London cab.

The spa turned out to be the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, a teaching hospital in Chelsea, London. Wow! Everyone's awake and working as though it were noon. Given oxygen, IVs started, doctors and nurses in and out, and near four in the afternoon, a CODE BLUE announced. Another drastic term. Why not just plain yell, DESSERT?

Wheeled up to the operation theatre, not at all apprehensive, and fully confident with the professionals in charge. This patient was a foreigner from the USA, and the team British, and the team worked as though the patient were their treasured Queen of England.

Thank you.

Patched up quickly with three clips, by way of an endoscopy, or a better name, the Peek-a-boo.

Three days at the spa, hemoglobin normal, then off to The Blakes Hotel in London, and sleeping in, terrific food, CNN, beautiful views, thick towels, and ginger shots.

Time to fly home on United, a smooth landing in San Francisco, and cheering for the Great in Great Britain.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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